Blinded by Heaven's Light
by Rebecca Steven Taylor
Summary: Aziraphale makes it back from Hell and waits in Berkeley Square for Crowley. When he doesn't arrive, Aziraphale realises he has to go to Heaven and get him back
1. Not Coming Back

Aziraphale, still in the guise of Crowley, sat very upright on the bench in Berkeley Square, waiting for Crowley. It wouldn't be long. Crowley never failed. Well, he did, but not this time. And Aziraphale had seen that when Crowley became Aziraphale, he saw him as brave and strong. The kind of angel who could carry this kind of deception off. It would all be tickety-boo. He'd promised.

Aziraphale had been worried that he was the one who would mess up. How could he possibly be Crowley? How could he swagger like that, and be all cool and kind of sexy and so cavalier. But in the end he had rather enjoyed being Crowley. He thought he'd pulled it off rather well. He had managed to fool Beelzebub and Hastur after all – although there had been a sticky moment when Michael had turned up. Aziraphale was sure the angel would see through the disguise but the archangel hadn't noticed. And he had enjoyed seeing Michael look rather worried at the end. Yes, that had been very good. A touch of the bastard in him coming out there. He couldn't wait to tell Crowley about the rubber duck.

He checked Crowley's huge mechanical watch. Crowley was late. Crowley was never late. He had been scrupulously on time for 6000 years now. It was almost evening.

The stars rose. Once, a very drunken Crowley had explained to Aziraphale, in great detail, how he had made those stars. Aziraphale had been enchanted.

'I wish I had known you then.'

'Lucky you didn't,' Crowley he said, suddenly turning away so his face was in shadow. 'Couldn't have us both falling, could we?'

Now Crowley's stars shone on a solitary figure sitting on a bench.

'They've got him,' Aziraphale whispered, but only a nightingale heard, and was silent.

OoOoOo

Aziraphale was terrified of heaven, in the way a beaten child is terrified of its parents. He longed for its approval, he wanted to be accepted, he had once had utter faith that they were always right – and yet they had always treated him with mild contempt. Aziraphale, too busy dreaming to watch the apple tree. Aziraphale, so clumsy he lost his flaming sword. Aziraphale who sullied his body with gross matter like sushi and enjoyed it. He always had the feeling they were laughing behind his back. And then – then they beat him. He had a feeling Uriel and Sandalphon would have killed him if the horn hadn't sounded – and Michael would have watched. At least Hell was honest in its darkness. Heaven pretended to be so good and it was rotten to the core. It made him sick. So Heaven, not Hell, had become the place he feared most.

But he would march into Heaven and tear apart every angel up to and including Gabriel if it meant getting Crowley back. And if it killed him – well, what was the point of life without Crowley?

He stood up, and then sat down again. It was all very well deciding to risk it all for Crowley, but what he really wanted to do was actually succeed, and just walking into Heaven wouldn't achieve that. No matter how it turned out, if he was caught or not, discovered or not, there was a chance that Crowley would end up covered in holy water and then – and then – no, he wouldn't think of it. That thought was unbearable. He had spent thousands of years terrified Hell would destroy Crowley, and then well over hundred years terrified Crowley would destroy himself, accidentally or deliberately, with holy water. Heaven had holy water everywhere, and it would only take a second to splash it over them both, and then Crowley would disintegrate, like the usher in Hell had. That must not happen.

What he needed was a plan.

OoOoOo

Ten minutes later, he had an idea. It wasn't a full plan, not yet anyway, but he was currently Crowley, wasn't he? And Crowley tended to just make things up as he went along. So he would be Crowley – and start the rescue from Heaven by marching into Hell.

It was no use going in via the front door. That was guarded. He had to be discreet for as long as possible. He couldn't just walk in where everywhere could see him and stop him.

He knew where to start. Across the road was 50 Berkeley Square, the most haunted house in London. The reason it had this reputation was that it was a back door into Hell and demons had been seen popping in and out from time to time, and terrifying the residents into madness and death along the way. They had a competition going – how many humans could they scare to death on the way out?

'Right,' Aziraphale said, standing up and tugging his – Crowley's – shirt straight. 'Here we go. Time to kick some butt.'

He walked across the square, trying to get into the swing of Crowley's swagger as he did so. He didn't bother to knock, he merely pushed his way into the house and through the door to Hell (neatly designed as a rather lovely Edwardian grandfather clock, he noticed) and walked down the stairs.

He'd been thrown out of here not twelve hours ago. He had promised not to come back, as long as they promised to leave him alone. If he had been Aziraphale he would have kept quiet and stuck to the empty corridors. As he was currently being Crowley, he stuck his hands in his pockets and marched through like he didn't give a damn.

It was oddly enlightening, to walk like this. He'd always assumed Crowley was endlessly self-assured and cool, but what if that was just what he was on the outside? What if he had been nervous and scared underneath, all the time? If Aziraphale could saunter so confidently round Hell whilst being absolutely terrified on the inside, had Crowley done that too?

Of course, Aziraphale had never tried to cover up his nervousness and softness. No, he had just tried to cover up his love for Crowley, because Heaven said it was shameful and wrong to love anyone but God and the Angels, and especially to love a demon.

He was very angry at Heaven. But right now, he had work to do.

He'd been surprised when he came down to Hell. He'd expected pools of burning sulphur, but Crowley had said that was so last century, and now it was just the damp basement office look, the kind with endlessly dripping pipes and a foul smell no-one could quite track down. Everyone just walked past each other, dead-eyed and suffering, just like in any other small crowded office. He would have to ask Crowley why there were posters telling people not to lick the walls, when he saw Crowley again. Because he would see Crowley again. He had to. He held onto that small nugget of faith as he walked through the darkness towards the room where he had been tired, condemned and bathed in holy water.

He needed two things. The first was easy to find. It was everywhere, after all. He just had to be careful not to touch it. Jars and jars of Hellfire, ranging from a jar the size of a door, for burning whole cities, to a tiny jar the size of a fingernail, to scorch a child.

'_Avoid the jars,' Crowley told him. 'They're not well sealed and they're always spilling over.'_

'_I will. And you avoid the water.'_

'_I never touch the stuff. Why is it never holy Chateau Lafite?'_

'_And its consecrated ground, won't your feet burn? I remember you dancing round that in church, even if you've forgotten.'_

'_I can stand the pain for a little while. And if what we suspect goes to plan, and a demon is coming up with Hellfire, they'll turn off the consecration for a while to allow him in. Flick the holy switch or something.'_

'_I don't think there is actually a switch…'_

'_And I remember every second of that night, Aziraphale. See? I stole the statue to remind me.'_

He tried to walk as if he didn't care about anything. Crowley always made it seem like he belonged exactly where he was at any given minute. Some of the demons were beginning to notice him. They must have been at the trial. They glanced at him sideways, a lowered gaze, careful not to let anyone else know what they had seen. Perhaps it was a test. Perhaps this was Satan's will. Either way, it was best to keep your head down in Hell – the slightest infraction led to punishment, and the punishments were varied, imaginative, often obscene and always agonising, to body or spirit. And yet – they looked. The demon who defied Beelzebub and bathed unharmed in holy water was here, and the whispers went round. Some were afraid. Some watched him with an intrigued curiosity. And some – well, the death of the demon Crowley would be welcomed by Beelzebub. Perhaps they would get a promotion, and get to go to Earth for a while, live Crowley's life, sleep in Crowley's bed, battle the angel Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was aware of every glance and tried to ignore them all. Aziraphale had always been very conscious of who was watching but Crowley always acted like he literally did not give a damn – so that's what he did. Besides, he was here now, in the trial room, and he could see what he needed. The jars of Hellfire shone in the gloom. Aziraphale walked over and calmly began to stuff the smaller jars into his jacket pockets.

He'd need weapons in Heaven. He was a quiet, polite angel who had never killed anyone and now he was going to burn any angel that got between him and his demon. He was faintly surprised to find he felt no guilt at this.

What had they done to him? If not death, than what?

'_It won't be a rude note this time, Crowley.'_

'_Not unless Gabriel is exceptionally good at cutting remarks. What then? A prison?'_

'_I don't think we have any. Agnes mentioned fire – I wonder if she means Hellfire?'_

'_Get a demon up from Hell to bring it? Heaven co-operate with Hell?'_

'_It'll probably be like a trade deal. Swap you holy water for your execution for Hellfire for ours. Do they have prisons in Hell?'_

'_Dozens of them. Oodles of prisons and pits and holes and chains and all the rest.'_

'_What if they lock you up instead of try to destroy you? I mean me. What if they lock me up?'_

'_Well, I'll just have to come and get you, that's all'_

Crowley was much better at playing the hero. Aziraphale didn't feel heroic at all. He felt small and soft and very vulnerable. He was also scared that he would fail. He would be too late and Crowley would be dead and it would be his fault because he was too useless to rescue him.

'What the Heaven are you doing here, Crowley?'

Oh Lord. Hastur. Aziraphale turned round slowly.

'I just thought I'd take…' Oh no. That wouldn't do at all. He was Crowley right now.

'What's it to do with you?' Aziraphale snapped.

'What's it to do with me? Why are you stealing Hellfire?' Hastur screamed. 'Crowley, I'll…'

'You'll what?' Aziraphale stepped up, nose to nose with Hastur. He really did stink of poo. 'I know, let's see if Michael left any of that holy water behind.' Aziraphale grabbed Hastur and dragged him towards the bathtub. Crowley's body wasn't soft at all, it was strong and Aziraphale enjoyed the feeling – for now. 'Just a drop will do.' Hastur tried to fight back, but Aziraphale wasn't letting anyone stop him, not now, not with Crowley lost and alone and hurt. He bent Hastur over the bathtub. 'Just need the tiniest damp patch to burn you,' he snarled.

'What do you want?' Hastur cried. And this was the second thing Aziraphale had come here for.

'I know there's a back door to Heaven here. That's how Michael came down. Where is it?'

'Why do you want to take Hellfire to Heaven?'

'That's my business. Where is it?'

Hastur pointed a trembling arm in the right direction. Aziraphale let him go and walked off.

'You'll never get away with it!'

'Betcha ten quid I do,' Aziraphale said, a line that sounded so like Crowley he had to check quickly that he was still Aziraphale.


	2. Hellfire in Heaven

It was a lift. Very ordinary, a bit cramped. On the way up – a very long journey - Aziraphale miracled his clothes to the rather dull grey the angels all seemed to favour. He couldn't do anything about the eyes. If he changed the eyes there was a chance he'd change the rest of him, and then become Aziraphale again. He'd have to keep the sunglasses.

Once the lift doors opened, he found himself looking at a long, white corridor, busily thronged with angels in grey and blue. Many of them wore Earth clothes – obviously preparing to pop down for a visit. A few still wore the old white robes, and they sniffed at the others disapprovingly. One or two angels had obviously been down on Earth long enough to grasp the concept of cool, and wore sunglasses, so he didn't stand out too much. He took a step out of the lift – and gasped.

Crowley. He could feel Crowley. Oh, thank Go…thank everything special in the world, Crowley was still alive. But he was hurt. He could feel the screaming in his bones. There was so much pain, the kind of pain that rips the soul – and he was certain Crowley had one – apart as it tears as the skin and destroys the muscles and poisons the blood. How long could he stand that?

He sent out healing thoughts to Crowley – I'm here, I'm coming – not sure if he could hear them or not.

'_I can be you. It's easy. Wear too much tartan, straighten my tie every five minutes.'_

'_Yes, very funny. Be serious for a moment, will you? It's more than just our faces. It's even more than the way we act. We have to think like each other.'_

'_Do you find that difficult, thinking like me?'_

'_I never quite know what you're thinking.'_

'_When this is all over, I'll tell you. And you, angel, what are you thinking?'_

'_That they'll destroy you and then I'll never be able to live with myself. I'm sorry, Crowley, I know it's sentimental and foolish, but I very much need you to be alive. Forever.'_

'_I'll live, angel. I promise you that. As long as you do.'_

It was a promise and Crowley always kept his promises, and never lied to him but that pain – that pain. The Hellfire burned in Aziraphale's pocket and his skin prickled in awareness of it as he hurried along.

Heaven had long since stopped being a garden, or clouds. Now it was like the most high-end office building available, covered in windows, bright sunshine illuminating long, clean floors. Wasn't it odd how Heaven and Hell had chosen the same basic building, just at different ends? Aziraphale found Heaven all rather sterile. But all office buildings, no matter how lovely and clean, have tiny little rooms hidden away where the stop cock is and the cleaning bucket is left. Of course, Heaven had no need for stop cocks and cleaning buckets, but it did like to stay true to its vision – so it built a row of tiny dark little rooms and used them for – another purpose.

A rude note had been enough to get Aziraphale to behave. That and utter fear of being cast out and a total belief in the goodness of Heaven. Other angels were not so easy to control. They were restless. They questioned. They **doubted.** Once they would have fallen, but Gabriel had no desire to add more to the ranks of demons. Instead, they were dealt with, in cold, dark little rooms, until they came out obedient and frightened.

Aziraphale had heard rumours, and he had been on Earth long enough to figure out where the cleaning cupboard usually is, so he hurried towards it.

'I'm coming, hold on, hold on,' he whispered to Crowley, trying not to run, because people didn't run in Heaven. He was having trouble anyway, trying not to walk in Crowley's blatantly sexy fashion but also trying not to walk in his own prim fashion. He was concentrating so hard on walking, and trying to hear Crowley that he didn't even notice Sandalphon slip out of the crowd and follow him.

There they were, a concrete service corridor with the usual no-smoking signs and obscene graffiti (they had really copied every detail) and the smell of damp chemicals and Crowley, the scent of him, a golden thread amongst the murk. Aziraphale reached out for his door.

'Gotcha,' Sandalphon said, grabbing hold of him. 'Come to rescue your boyfriend?'

'Yes,' Aziraphale said simply. 'He's done nothing.' He reached for a jar of Hellfire. He'd quite enjoy discorporating Sandalphon.

'A demon in Heaven,' Uriel said, coming up to join them. 'And consorting with an angel too. That's not good for either party.'

'Something odd is going on here,' Sandalphon said, and grabbed Aziraphale's hand. He unpeeled his fingers and saw the jar of Hellfire. He searched Aziraphale's pockets and found the other jars. 'Lock him up,' he ordered Uriel. 'I'm going to talk to Michael.'

Sandalphon hurried off and Uriel opened a door with a wave of her hand.

'Can you hear your angel boyfriend scream, demon?' she asked him. 'He's been screaming for hours. How nice you'll be able to hear him soon.'

'I believe you are what is called on Earth, a psychopath.' Aziraphale said. Uriel, not familiar enough with Aziraphale or Crowley, didn't recognise the angel's tone in the demon's voice. Uriel punched him back and slammed the door.

'Oh, bugger.' Aziraphale said. This was a useless rescue. He was locked up, he had lost his Hellfire and when they worked out who they both were – this was all going so wrong.

Then he listened. There was still a trace of Crowley's voice in the air, an echo of past pain. They still thought he was Aziraphale then. He had held on. He hadn't broken. If he had revealed himself, he would have been destroyed by now. If Crowley could still survive, Aziraphale could. Now he had to work out how to get out of this cell, into Crowley's and get them both out of Heaven.

'Oh dear,' Aziraphale said, sitting down on a box of photocopier paper. He really wasn't very good at this sort of thing. He felt something in his pocket digging into him and he reached in.

He still had one tiny jar of Hellfire.

He stood up and shook the door. You never knew. Angels were just so damn cocky they never felt the need to check anything, and it would be just like them to leave the door unlocked.

'Well,' said Aziraphale. 'That was a very Crowley thought.' If he talked, perhaps Crowley could hear him and know he was there. The door, however, was firmly bolted on the outside. Angels didn't believe in keys, but they did like big heavy bolts. They wanted to keep angels in, they didn't want angels to lock them out. There was only one way out. He stood back, and very carefully, threw the tiny jar of Hellfire at the door.

It took a second, and then it shot up, reducing the side of the door to ashes. Aziraphale inched past, pulling his jacket away from the flames. Just one touch and he'd go up in smoke. He felt the heat on his skin, and heard voices in the flames. Someone was begging, someone was screaming. All the souls that had died in the fire haunted it. It felt alive. He pressed up against the frame of the door as he went past, but he felt it reach for him. It sensed angel flesh, and it was hungry. He got past, only just, the scent of Crowley on his skin confusing the fire. Once out, he looked for a fire extinguisher – and then stopped. Let it burn. Let it destroy every cell here. Putting out this fire would keep them occupied. He ran down the other cells and opened them. They were mostly empty, one had a very young angel in, another a demon – goodness knows how that got there - both of whom had run as soon as the door was opened- and then finally, he flung open the right one.

Himself – Aziraphale, Crowley as Aziraphale lay curled up in the corner. His coat, kept in tip-top condition for over a hundred years, was torn and filthy and this was the worst thing of all – covered in blood. Crowley's legs lay beneath him, at an awkward angle. He was slumped, unconscious, bones clearly shattered so he couldn't stand. This was heaven, and a demon couldn't heal himself here. Aziraphale leaned over him, and healed the broken legs. Then he lifted up the sleeping demon's face into the light. His face was scratched, long furrows as if some huge bird had attacked him – which it might have done. Both eyes were blackened and swollen and his lip was split. Aziraphale looked at the ruin of the demon, and a monstrous anger, like nothing he had felt before, rose in him. How dare they? How dare they treat him like this because he had tried to save the world! How dare they hurt this man that he loved so much it tore the heart out of him.

But he was gentle as he spoke.

'Crowley – darling – wake up.'

'Just a moment. Just let me sleep.'

'No now, my love, we have to leave.'

'Angel?' Crowley squinted up at him, blinking the sleep away. 'Is that you, angel?'

'It's a daring rescue mission,' Aziraphale said, trying not to show the pain he felt. 'I'm getting you out of here.'

'I'm not sure you can. There's a lot of them and they seem very angry.' Crowley moved his legs. He winced, but he could move.

Aziraphale pulled Crowley up and put his arm around him, holding him up. Although he had mended Crowley's legs, there was still a lot of damage. It would take a long time to heal fully, and they had to leave now.

'Don't doubt me, Crowley,' he said, as he guided them out. The fire was getting out of control, and causing a distraction.

'Wouldn't dream of it,' Crowley said.

He half-carried Crowley down the corridors, towards the lift. Goodness knew how he'd get out through Hell, but one insurmountable problem at a time. First they had to get down there.

The angels had noticed the fire and were running to fight it. They had no experience fighting Hellfire, and it was causing a lot of trouble. They were closing off bits of Heaven, trying to stop the fire from spreading.

'Damn. They're blocking the corridor off. We'll have to go through the main room. Can you do it, dear?'

'I can do whatever you ask of me, Aziraphale,' Crowley said, straightening up. He couldn't lean on Aziraphale in there. It was full of angels, and they had to walk through it. Crowley reached out and pulled a cloak off a passing angel, who objected but looked at Crowley, decided discretion was the better part of valour, and hurried off.

The room was crowded. Angels were taking refuge here from the fire. This room was special, protected and guarded. Hellfire surely couldn't get in here. They crowded together in little groups, urgently discussing where the fire had come from, who caused it, how had Hellfire got here, who's fault was it?

The main room stretched the whole length of the building. From the windows the angels could look down upon London, or Paris or New York, or whereever in the world they fancied. Sometimes Gabriel used it as his private room, and then it echoed with emptiness.

This was where they had taken Crowley.

'_We're meant to be the good guys, for Heaven's sake!'_

'_And for Heaven's sake, we make an example of a traitor.'_

'_So you're going to kill me? How? Hellfire?'_

'_Oh, no, that would be far too easy! We want you to suffer, Aziraphale. First of all, Crowley is dead. Ooh, you felt that, didn't you! And then we are going to hand you over to some very dark angels indeed. They haven't had fun since the Spanish Inquisition – and the problem with humans is, they die so quickly. Well, you won't die! We won't let you. You will suffer torments, all day, every day, for the rest of your life – which is an eternal one, by the way. So shut your stupid mouth, and bleed already.'_

Which hadn't been the plan. But thank goodness it was him, and not Aziraphale. Crowley had been to Hell and done a dive into a pit of boiling sulphur and suffered the torments of the damned. He could take a beating or two. But Aziraphale – it shook him badly to think of his gentle angel being hurt like this. He would never have been able to take it. That had been his constant thought every hour, every minute they had hurt him – thank all the stars in heaven that this isn't happening to Aziraphale.

And now here Aziraphale was, leading him through crowds of angels, rescuing him. That was new. He'd never be able to live this down. He never wanted to. He wanted to spend eternity saying thank you to Aziraphale in every possible way.

Although suddenly eternity seemed a very short time. Michael was heading towards them.


	3. Consorting with Demons

'Aziraphale,' Michael said, in her faux-kind voice. 'And Crowley. And don't think I can't tell you which of you is really you.'

Aziraphale took hold of Crowley and pulled him behind him.

'Let us go, Michael,' he demanded, and much to his surprise, his voice didn't shake at all.

'Why would I want to do that?'

'Because it's the right thing to do! We've both been punished, it's time this was over.'

Crowley looked around. Angels everywhere had turned to look and walking towards them. They did not look happy.

'This isn't going well,' he whispered urgently.

'I know!' Aziraphale hissed back. 'Michael, yes, we stopped Armageddon, but you know that's almost certainly what God wanted. You can't go against God's plan now.'

'Oh, I'm not going to punish you for that,' she said sweetly. 'You consorted with a demon. You plotted with him. You had secret meetings with him, didn't you? And you've been doing it for centuries. That's why we're punishing you.'

'Well, that's a bit rich, coming from you!' Aziraphale snapped. 'I saw you in Hell, bringing down the holy water to kill me. Crowley, I mean. You were very comfortable down there. I don't think that's your first visit.'

'Seriously, the archangel Michael went down to hell personally?' Crowley asked. 'I would have thought they'd send a minor angel for that sort of thing. Bit dangerous, an archangel going down alone – unless you knew they could be trusted.'

The angels around them began to stir. Crowley watched them carefully.

'And we all saw Gabriel and Beelzebub working together down there on Earth!' Aziraphale continued ranting. 'They didn't behave like two beings that hadn't spoken for thousands of years. They behaved like they had monthly team meetings! With coffee and biscuits!'

'I don't think we're the only angel and demon that have been consorting,' Crowley said, although he privately doubted any of them had been consorting in quite the same way as him and Aziraphale. 'Look around, Aziraphale.'

He did. Aziraphale had been expecting to see a crowd of angry angels and some were. But some looked puzzled, and some looked embarrassed and some looked – hopeful. How odd.

'You've been consorting with demons, Michael?' a voice called out. 'You told us not to go near them.'

'Foul, stinking beings of the dark, you called them,' another voice said. 'Not fit for our company.'

'I haven't…' Michael objected, but much to the archangel's surprise, she wasn't allowed to finish.

'Don't lie to us, you were seen down there.'

'I was taking the holy water…' Michael tried to say, but something in the Heaven was changing that day.

'Not today,' another angel said. 'Before. I saw you. When I was down there myself.' The angel took a deep breath and stood up tall, as if facing a firing squad. 'Visiting a friend.'

'I've seen you down there too,' someone else said, bravely stepping forward. Her smart dress marked her as one of those who spent a lot of time on Earth. 'I have someone down there. I thought I was the only one who visited.' She glanced at the first angel, and they shared a look.

'You're not,' a softer, sweeter voice said. 'I don't see why they should be punished for something that happened thousands of years ago. Besides, they have all the best music.'

And it spread. Not all the angels, not even a majority, but some turned round and looked at the others and realised they weren't the only ones. They had hidden friendships and love and every contact with a demon that hadn't ended in a fight, and now they realised – they weren't alone. Not many, but too many to punish.

And Michael had been doing it too. Forming back channels and swapping information and consorting. Perhaps even Gabriel.

'I don't think your angels want people executed for consorting with demons,' Crowley said. 'Or to go into battle against them.'

'I suppose it would be a bit of a shock to find yourself fighting someone you'd been spending Sunday afternoons in the park with,' Aziraphale said.

'If you kill us for this,' Crowley said, 'you'll have to kill the rest of them. Including yourself.'

Michael looked around. There was a chance – just a chance, that a rebellion could start over this. The archangel had to be very careful.

'Heaven is merciful,' Michael said loudly. 'Therefore we will let you go. However, I cannot answer for what Hell will do to you.'

There was silence, and then one of the angels pulled out a mobile phone and called a number.

'Hey, its me…' he said, but the rest of the conversation was drowned. Angel after angel got out their phones and called someone down below. Some of the conversations were scrupulously polite. Some were friendly. Some – a few, were intense, the low words spoken tender, and Aziraphale could feel the love radiating out of them.

'Looks like we're weren't the only angel and demon fraternising,' Crowley said.

'This isn't fraternising,' Aziraphale said, listening. 'This is so much more. It always was for us, Crowley and now I think it is for them too.'

Every conversation was different, yet all contained the words 'safe conduct.' They were arranging Aziraphale's and Crowley's passage through Hell.

'Aren't you going to call your friend, Michael?' Crowley asked, sauntering up to her.

'I can't. You killed him,' she said, very calmly.

'Ligur? Really? Well, no accounting for taste, I suppose,' he said, walking away. He hadn't expected that.

'Crowley!' Aziraphale snapped. 'I am so very sorry for your loss, Michael.'

She shrugged.

'He was a demon. There are a great many more.'

And yet, there was a trace of something there, a shadow of loss, even perhaps of grief. Aziraphale stepped closer so only she could hear.

'That's why it had to be you that bought the holy water. You were taking revenge.'

'I'm an angel, we don't do revenge.'

'Be that as it may – if any harm comes to Crowley because of an action of yours – I will kill you.'

Michael looked at him, ready to laugh. But the archangel could see it in him. Not anger, but love. Not the passionless pure love angels were supposed to feel, but something flawed, and deep and complicated, that hurt and saved and blessed. He would kill Michael for love of Crowley.

'Understood.' Michael said.

'Good, glad that's sorted out. Shall we go, Crowley?'

The angels watched them leave. Crowley and Aziraphale arrived in hell to find a phalanx of demons guarding their path to the exit in Berkeley Square. They didn't speak, or attack. They just watched them go, and held back the other demons, the ones who hadn't had a phone call. Hastur and Beelzebub were no-where to be seen. There was no friendship here, or any alliance. Just a silent watching and a thought running through each demons mind. 'This could be me.'

OoOoOo

It was mid afternoon in Berkeley Square, and Crowley collapsed gratefully onto the bench. He would heal faster now he was out of heaven. They sat there, watching the children play in the sunshine, listening to the taxi-driver swear at the BMW driver, breathing in the London fumes.

'Well,' Crowley said. 'That was a thing.'

'What was a "thing"?' Aziraphale asked.

'You rescuing me. It's usually the other way round.'

'Well, I thought I'd repay the favour.'

'I'd say you've repaid all favours for eternity.'

Aziraphale smiled tightly. He reached out his hand to Crowley's, resting on the bench between them.

'Swap back,' he said.

'Not now,' Crowley said. 'I'm not healed. You'll get some of the pain.'

'Yes, now, Crowley, I insist. Don't argue with me.'

'I wouldn't dare after what I just saw you do.'

They took hands and swapped back and once the swap was done, they kept holding hands. Aziraphale gasped as the pain hit him.

'I'm sorry,' Crowley said, but Aziraphale stopped him.

'Let me,' he said. 'It was my fault you had to go through this. I'm sorry.'

'It wasn't your fault,' Crowley said. 'It was Gabriel's fault…'

'You suffered pain because of me, and I cannot forget that.'

'I'd suffer a lot worse for you, angel. Do you want to know what the worst pain I ever felt was?'

'The Fall?'

'Walking into your burning bookshop and finding you gone. That was the worst. Nothing they did to me can compare with that.'

Crowley hadn't looked at Aziraphale as he said that, nervous that he would see that look on Aziraphale's face again, the going too fast look. He merely looked out at the garden. His grip tightened on Aziraphale's hand though.

'I'm sorry,' Aziraphale said after ten minutes of silence.

'What for, the tartan collar?' Crowley joked, whilst inside him his heart sank.

'Tartan is stylish. No, I mean for everything else. For – well, for making you wait for me. You have been waiting for me, haven't you? I've got so much wrong.'

'Oh, only about 6000 years. No time at all, angel.' Within him, Crowley began to hope. Perhaps – perhaps now – but he had thought that before, at the church, in the car when Aziraphale gave him the holy water, so many other times but the moments had passed and Aziraphale, torn between Heaven and Crowley, had chosen Heaven every time.

'I've been wrong all these years, you see,' Aziraphale said. 'I thought Heaven – I thought that was love.'

'What, the Sound of Music and celestial harmonies?'

'No – I mean them. The angels and all that but – I'm not explaining this well. Look, do you remember when Adam said they were just two gangs fighting to decide who was best?'

'Yeah. He had a point.'

'He did,' Aziraphale said quickly, turning to face Crowley. 'And I thought Heaven was all love and goodness but it's not, it's just another gang, and I never want to go back there or again or do anything they tell me again.'

And before Crowley could say anything, Aziraphale leaned down and kissed him. A lovers kiss, on the lips, all passion and heat and hope.

Someone wolf-whistled in approval. Aziraphale pulled away a second, looked at Crowley's stunned face, and then kissed him again, much longer, and this time Crowley reached up to touch his face.

When Aziraphale finally stopped, he looked down at the face of the demon he had loved for centuries, even if he had only admitted it in the ruins of a church in 1941. Somehow that seemed appropriate now, love born from a shattered holy place. All the love, all the pain, all the need Crowley had ever felt for him was clear to see on his face, and Aziraphale wondered why he had never seen it there before. Had he always looked at Aziraphale like this? Aziraphale had never seen it, so caught up in trying to keep his own feelings hidden, especially from himself.

'Just to be clear,' Aziraphale said, in the breathlessly prim way he had sometimes, the one that made Crowley gaze at him in amused adoration. 'I am saying I love you.'

'Well, I love you too, angel.'

Aziraphale looked at him, still unsure, but no longer blinded by Heaven's light, he could see it clearly now.

OoOoOo

They sat there a while longer, while they healed, and Aziraphale made Crowley laugh with what happened in Hell. Crowley never laughed when alone. He barely smiled. He only laughed with Aziraphale and it made him dizzy to think this precious being loved him too, that he was finally his, like Crowley had belonged to him since that moment on the wall of Eden.

'Time to leave the garden,' Crowley said. 'Can I tempt you to a spot of lunch?'

'Temptation accomplished!'

'About bloody time, I've been trying to tempt you for 6000 years.'

OoOoOo

Heaven and Hell decided, perhaps, they wouldn't go to war just yet. Instead, they would open up the back channels. Communication would be easier. Perhaps a few angels and demons could work in partnership on Earth. There would even be some interdepartmental meetings, although the meetings between Beelzebub and Gabriel would stay strictly behind locked doors for some reason. As for Aziraphale and Crowley – they were never to be approached. Their names were never to be spoken. They were banished from Heaven and Hell.

They didn't mind. Their Heaven was each other, and their Hell was to be apart – and they would never be apart again.


End file.
